I nodded slightly to a coil of tawny water-weed spinning slowly in a little eddy near the bank. “Gather as much of those dead-man’s-ringlets as you can. The stalks end in clumps of air-bladders, and you could very well be fixing them under the raft for buoyancy. They might even work.”
“So they might,” Nyateneri said in a vicious Dirvic snarl, not looking in that direction. “Thank you, that’s a clever idea.” The words came out sounding like a blood insult, and he punched my shoulder abruptly, knocking me backward into a crackling tangle of brush, then laughing uproariously as I struggled to pick myself up. I said, “I’ll leave your pack with all the rope in it,” and hit him in the mouth.
“Leave the empty water-bottles as well,” he reminded me, shaking me until my teeth clicked together. “Anything that floats. Circle back after dark, without the horses.”
So we agreed on details, such as they were, all the while slapping and knocking each other up and down the shore. Our beasts looked on, nickering unconcernedly, and fish continued jumping after insects; and somewhere close among the joker-trees Nyateneri’s tireless enemy waited for nightfall. When all was as settled between us as it could be, I spat in his eye and stormed away, pausing only to shout back at him, “I’m very sorry that I didn’t tell you my plan about building a raft. I am still Lal-Alone, and confiding even in a partner is hard for me. I am sorry.”
Nyateneri bared his teeth and lifted a threatening hand. “I understand. I should tell you, incidentally, that I cannot swim.” I almost ended our charade right there, gaping at him in deepening alarm, but he growled, “Confidence for confidence. On your way, and remember that you have never in your life met anyone as dangerous as our little friend. Go now!”
I stalked back to the horses and began furiously loading them, making a point of throwing Nyateneri’s pack to the ground when I hitched his horse to the Mildasi black. Then I mounted and set off, heading upstream, due west, not a backward glance until we were rounding the upper horn of the quarter-moon. Nyateneri looked small and distant already, bending to pick up an armload of the thick, rubbery dead-man’s-ringlets. I called, “Be careful!” trusting that evil language to make the warning into a parting curse. Nyateneri never raised his head. I spat again, this time, to rid my mouth of the shame of Dirvic, and rode on along the river shore.
THE FOX
Man into fox—fox into man—which?” Boy Tikat asks me that when we meet, only I stop his silly mouth with food, best way then. But truth—truth is not one on top, not the other underneath. Fox and man-shape side by side, never enough room, and below, oh, below! Below is nothing, such an old, old nothing, long ago it turns into a something. True. Even nothing wants, sometimes even nothing grows hungry to hear voices, songs, smell morning earth, drink water, munch up a pigeon. Me? A finger of nothing, a toe—but me even so, doing what I want. Nyateneri wants this, man-shape wants that, I do what I want. But when old nothing calls, I go.
And old nothing is stirring—cold, heavy, sleepy nothing feels him, tricky magician at the inn, alone in a little place, gone to earth like a fox—yesyes, and that other, it feels that one too, reaching, searching, almost knowing, almost sure. Over the inn, all around, power gropes for power—dogs know it, chickens know it, even weather knows it. Bright, hot sun, not a cloud, day after day, and always the smell of rain, but no rain. Old nothing says in me, “Find out. Find out.”
So. Nyateneri is far away, and man-shape sits all rosy in the taproom again, tells long stupid stories, asks, listens, watches. Inn is swarming like a dead log full of grubs— always pilgrims, peddlers, canal bargemen, soldiers on leave, once or twice a sheknath hunter with his razor-silk net, his double lances. Rosseth too sad to talk, Marinesha too busy, never liked man-shape anyway. Gatti Jinni will talk all day, keep the red ale coming, but what does little angry-face know? Same for Shadry, the cook, stupid as the potboys he beats. Boy Tikat keeps all away from man-shape, never even looks across the taproom. Fat innkeeper lumbers in and out and in, fetches and serves, shouts at soldiers when they pinch Marinesha. He looks hard at man-shape every time—nice smile back, every time, why not? No pigeon feathers on this smile.
“The girl,” says old nothing. “The girl.” But she spends most times with wicked magician, only goes back to her room at night. If a soft, so soft fox slips under her arm, nuzzles close, then she whispers, “There you are,” and bends her head to me. “Small one, where is Lal, where is Nyateneri, do you know? The tafiya—” that is her name for him—“the tafiya says they are fools, and will be eaten by rock-targs and fall in a river and drown, and not to worry about them. But I do. Tell me where my friends are, small one.” Over and over until she falls asleep holding me too hard.
No use to old nothing in that, but what to do about it? Humans talk one way to a bedtime toy, another way to another human. Take the man-shape in her bed? Say, “Hello, only me, we have slept like this nights on nights.” Wake Lal and Nyateneri, that scream would, wherever they sleep now. Best to wait until very early morning, first twilight, sometimes she walks a little by herself. Best to wait, I tell old nothing.
But the sky is pulling tight. Every day, one horizon to the other, sky and air creaking as power gropes for power. Wind grinds, aches; water comes apart—you can taste, see it in the least little dog-puddle, hear it in stone floor of the taproom, hear it in voices. At the inn, peddlers struggle to lift packs, sit down and cry. Soldiers drink and nothing happens, pilgrims forget prayer words, fight each other— bargemen, everyone sick, stumble into doorposts, say Shadry poisons them. And all of it the working of him upstairs, all of it. I know. Hide, keep hiding, yes, pull the air tight, tight over him, that other must not find him. Oh, never mind foxes, people, no matter pilgrims even— no matter if everything tears, splits down the middle like a water beetle hatching itself into a thunderwing, and what then? What hatchling comes then, do they wonder, those two? Nono, never mind that, never mind. Magicians.
Old nothing: “The girl.” So outside with man-shape, out into dusty twilight, museful stroll in the courtyard, contemplate naril tree, a turn through the orchard, a turn back. Now she comes—little sharp steps, quick turn to look here, there, every moment afraid of meeting boy Tikat. See her, sad round ordinary face, and behind it the white fire—but not her fire, nothing to do with her, poor thing—see her coming just so, so many paces this way, so many that way, an invisible cage, real enough to throw a shadow. Sorry for a human? Not possible, not for me, not. And still.
Forward Grandfather man-shape: dim, gentle smile, peaceful movements, not to frighten in the dusk. Beautiful evening, sweet birds singing (truth: hardly a one, not these nights), how good to find even more loveliness abroad. Such a fortunate old gentleman. Walk with, a little?—perhaps toward the highway and back? Even politeness happily accepted, this age.
No word, no nod, but she takes man-shape’s arm and we walk. Prattle, mumble, pat her hand sometimes, first time walking so in twenty years, imagine. But where are her companions? The tall brown woman, elegant as rain? The black one with her long, graceful eyelids like ships’ sails? Man-shape will say anything. She is shivering, not in the flesh but all the way down, beyond bones. “In danger.” Other words, too, but so low I hear only those.
Old nothing: “What danger?” What danger?—caught between stupid magicians, what else? But no care for that, old nothing needs more. Never says what it needs—feels, feels, hungers, always sure about that, but never the words. Very hard on a poor fox, all this living sideways through three worlds. I say, “Indeed, these mountains can be most perilous. There are bandits, there are nishori, rock-targs—”